Salvation
by She's a Star
Summary: Lips that would kiss form prayers to broken stone. (DracoHermione)


**Salvation**

_By She's a Star_

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling owns HP. I hope she doesn't do this to it.

**Author's Note:** I wrote this for Finding Beauty, who is the biggest (and only, I think, but still) D/Hr fan I know. So, yep, she asked me to write a Draco/Hermione for her, and write it I did. This is my first real attempt at D/Hr, on account of my whole rabid R/H shipper state, so it might be absolutely terrible. I kinda like it, though, so . . . yep. Righto. Enjoy, or something.

*

            "There's no one else left," she offers – an explanation – and presses her mouth, unforgiving, against his. He freezes, overcome with disgust, stained, all in an instant before he realizes that this feels clean somehow. He remembers snogging Pansy in an empty classroom, her lip gloss sickeningly sweet, overwhelming. Now, here – he still can't quite comprehend that this is happening – it's different, different than anything else. She tastes like peppermint; flinches a little as his teeth catch her lip; Weasley probably kissed her different, but it doesn't matter because there's nothing left of him but a bloodied corpse and a headstone. '_Ronald B. Weasley, 1980 – 1997.'_ He expects that she must put flowers there – every day, white roses – and it makes him sick. He traces curses against her teeth: _CrucioCrucioCrucio_, over and over, but she just sighs and washes it away. Goody Goody Granger, top marks in everything – he'd always hoped she'd be the first to die. He never seems to get the things he wants.

            This is stupid; disgusting; he imagines his father might kill him if he found him right now. Of course, he can't – his father's dead, and his mother, too. He forgets it sometimes, even though he shouldn't. He stumbled over his mother's wrist, after all, looked down to see her blonde hair matted with reddish brown. Quite unbecoming. He knows she would have been displeased with it, if she'd had any say in the matter. His mother had always been very vain. And his father, simply still, eyes open and filled with fear. Seeing his father afraid was something he'd never experienced, and it makes his skin crawl to think about it. His skin should be crawling already, because now she's placed a hand on his forearm and her fingers, cold and white, uneven nails, are pressed right against his flesh. It's disgusting, or it should be – but instead it feels different. Like a blessing, a release; until now, he hasn't found anyone as chilled as he is.

            He's sunk as low as there is to sink, he decides, because otherwise he would have pushed her away, shouted, sworn, cursed her, killed her maybe. Killing's not unpopular these days.

            Instead, he just kisses her.

            He has no clue why she's doing this. She's so chaste, after all, prudent and perfect. And he's the nemesis, the foil; he remembers her slapping him across the face in third year. God, he hated her, hates her, but he's not so sure that it matters anymore.

            _Of course it matters,_ a nasty little voice whispers, lost somewhere in his skull. _She's trash; dirty; marring you._

            Her fingertips find his, and they press against each other, a silent war. This is stupid, he thinks, and trivial, and he remembers how Pansy would simply drape her arms over his shoulders. It's so like her, to complicate everything. He remembers watching her in Potions lessons, his blood boiling as she provided long, complex answers that even Professor Snape couldn't dock points from.

            It occurs to him that maybe she's just trying to drive him mental, and God, if she is, it's working. Granger, always so clever, always there to make him look like an idiot.

            He pulls his hand away from hers, ignores the tingling in his fingertips, and fixes her with a glare. Suddenly, he hates her more than ever, wishes that she would drop over dead, decides that maybe if she did he'd do a little jig across her corpse. It's what she deserves. She's a Mudblood, and a know-it-all, and it makes his stomach twist up to think that he'll never be able to take this back. He kissed Hermione Granger in the darkest corner of the dungeon corridor, and he'll never be able to erase the taste of her, the chill of her lips as they met his.

            "Mudblood," he hisses, because he can't think of anything else, anything even a fraction as extreme as the loathing coursing through him right now.

            She stares back, composed, and he turns on his heel and storms off. The halls are empty, his footsteps loud, and he can feel her eyes on his retreating figure. He glances back once, for a moment, and sees her absently bring her fingers to her mouth.

            He suspects that perhaps she's not trying to make him crazy after all.

            Whispers float around the castle, lacing through common rooms and drifting across the halls during passing periods. Weasley's dead, of course; Longbottom, Patil, Finnigan, countless others along with him. The Gryffindor common room's very quiet, or so it's said. And Ginny Weasley possessed by the Dark Lord again, more successfully this time. He'd actually managed to get her to kill someone. The guilt was too much, apparently, her brother's blood on her hands. When they carried her body out of the castle on Tuesday morning, McGonagall explained it by saying she'd fallen asleep in the bathtub. He doubts anyone was actually stupid enough to believe it, except maybe some of the Hufflepuffs.

            Potter stopped talking around the time his girlfriend killed herself.

            He understands the second time, when she follows him outside, the rain soaking her ridiculous hair. She doesn't need to explain; he's not stupid._ "There's no one else left."_

            There's ink on her hands, and he asks her if she's really stupid enough to focus on schoolwork when things have fallen apart so badly. She doesn't reply, and he's not sure that she needs to, because it looks like she might be crying, but the rain's pounding down now, and it's impossible to tell.

            They don't look at one another in the corridors; he watches her at breakfast one morning, though. She and Potter sit alone – he stares down at the table, and she takes his hand in her own, murmurs things Draco can't hear but understands anyway. _"Oh, go on, Harry. You have to eat at least a bit. Here, have a piece of toast."_ He doesn't, of course. Draco wants to laugh, almost, because she never gives up, still tries even though it's so damn obvious that there's no point anymore.

            On Sunday, he follows her outside, where she stands at the shore of the lake. She's holding something – a cross, he discovers as he reaches her, his arm brushing hers. Silver, tiny, wholly unremarkable. It's pathetic, that anyone could even dream of finding salvation in something so worthless.

            "Do you pray?" she asks, quietly, and doesn't turn to look at him.

            He eyes her reflection in the water for a moment. She's broken – it's obvious – and it's strange, because he thought it would be so much more satisfying than this.

            "No," he says.

            "Me either," she replies.

            He's not sure what he's doing as he awkwardly catches her hand. She doesn't even freeze for a minute; just laces her fingers gently through his. The cross is cold; her hands soft; ink-covered; there's so much of her in this one stupid hand, and he wonders why it is, exactly, that he can't bring himself to just let go.


End file.
